


Aerie

by shinychimera, Yeomanrand



Series: Jessed [1]
Category: White Collar
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-29
Updated: 2010-07-29
Packaged: 2017-10-10 20:44:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/104076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shinychimera/pseuds/shinychimera, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yeomanrand/pseuds/Yeomanrand
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A conversation on Neal's balcony.</p><p>Written for "Abandonment Issues" on yeomanrand's hc_bingo card.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Aerie

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shinychimera](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shinychimera/gifts).



"Neal?"

The apartment was dark, no response forthcoming. Peter looked down at June.

"He's here," she said, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear with a graceful shrug. "Came home in a storm and hasn't left. Unless he decided to climb down the building."

Which they both knew was within Neal's skill set, but completely unlikely.

She hesitated with a hand on the doorknob, looking pensively into the wide unlit space. "May I ask what happened?"

"A missed connection but -- I'm still not sure myself," Peter said, crossing the threshold. "Thanks, June."

"Don't thank me. I'm only letting you in because _I'm_ worried." She closed the door firmly behind him.

"Who isn't," Peter said, under his breath. Ambient light from the streets below spilled through the apartment's large windows, allowing him to make his way across the spotless living room. He didn't bother calling Neal's name again; either Neal was there and had heard them come in, or he wasn't.

He walked through the kitchen to the balcony, not surprised to find Neal leaning back in one of the wrought-iron chairs, up above the world and looking out beyond the cityscape. No, what surprised him was seeing Neal out of his usual stylish threads, wearing only a plain undershirt and a pair of dark pants, his feet bare and pale against the stone of the building and the ankle cuff. He cradled a glass of red wine in his hand, though the bottle wasn't in evidence, and his sketch pad was a broad expanse of unmarred white on his lap. He didn't turn when he spoke.

"Peter. Come and sit, or have your say and go."

"I can't tell which you'd rather," Peter said, stepping out into the balmy night air. Neal was unreadable when he wanted to be, but somehow this felt different. He sounded like his silver tongue had been transmuted to stone.

Neal shook his head, slightly, took a sip of his wine, offering only his neutral profile until his gaze slipped sideways when Peter hung in his peripheral vision. Peter stepped forward, caught the other heavy chair and settled on the edge; uncomfortable but aware there was something important going on. Neal studied his face, looked back at the view.

"I don't know, either," he admitted, crossing his legs.

"This isn't _just_ about us missing each other today. Or Kate."

"No."

The silence spread out before them like the city; Peter had no clue how to pull Neal out of his own head. He rested his forearms on his knees and folded his fingers, drawing closer to Neal without invading his space.

Neal sighed and pivoted toward him without moving the chair, snagging the pad before it slid off his lap and tucking it between his hip and the arm of the chair.

"Wine?" he offered, without any of his usual gracious flourish.

"Thanks, no. You'd just complain it was wasted on me, anyway."

"I do have beer in the refrigerator."

"I know you do." Peter frowned, struck by something in Neal's tone. "And that bothers you."

Neal opened his mouth to protest or deflect, then shut it with a snap, jaw working.

"Yes, it bothers me. I have a refrigerator, Peter, and there are things inside that imply _not only_ that I'm not going anywhere any time soon, but that there are people in my life I can expect to just drop by.

"It used to be that I'd get bored somewhere and just pack up and go. Tired of New York? Hit Barcelona. Tired of Barcelona? Try Moscow for a while." He waved one long-fingered hand at the city spread out before them.

"I had the whole world. I carried nothing because I could always get more -- more money, more furniture, more food, more attention, more art, more whatever. There were people I could contact if I needed them, but nothing like now. Stability fits me like one of your suits, Peter, and if you're even thinking _one word_ about not getting caught you can leave."

Peter set his steepled fingers against his lips. Neal looked at him, set his wine glass down, ran his hand through his hair.

"You want to know the truth? Kate's _gone_, Peter, but I'm not alone. And that scares me."

"Wait. _Not_ being alone scares you? Neal, you broke out of jail to find Kate. You agreed to reinstate our deal --"

"Mozzie convinced me that I ought to take you up on the offer. Otherwise...I might not have. And Kate..." Neal swallowed, "Kate was the exception to a lot of rules, Peter. She was _like_ me. We were tied to each other but neither of us tied to anything else. She flew, grinned, swindled, jumped, just like I did, and she knew the risks we took."

"And you don't think the rest of us understand the risks? You want to give _me_ a little credit, at least?"

Neal's eyes closed, then fluttered open again.

"That's not -- look, I know you know the risks, and generally speaking you're in more danger than I am on any given job --"

"But you're not used to anyone else's risks mattering. And _that's_ the point. The reason you've kept everyone but Kate at a comfortable distance before now."

Peter couldn't quite tell in the available light, but he suspected Neal was blushing.

"So when I no-showed on you..."

Neal's jaw tightened again, blue eyes hidden beneath dark lashes. "Everything you're thinking, and more."

"I'm sorry," Peter said, and stopped. He didn't know how to make a promise that wouldn't sound like a fetter, and he didn't know how to tailor this suit so that Neal could be more comfortable in it.

The warm breeze tickled the back of his neck.

"You know anything about falconry?"

Neal looked up momentarily, tilting his head in the way that meant Peter'd intrigued him. He probably did know, had probably _flown_ a bird instead of just reading about it in histories, but he waited for Peter to go on.

"Seems a hawk spends the first part of its life tied down, while it's learning how to function in a world that's not the wild. It's on a long lead while it learns to fly and to hunt. But once it's learned where home and security are, it just wears jesses on its ankles."

They both glanced down at Neal's feet.

"It's tied, but it's not tied _to_ anything, unless it's too dangerous out there for it to fly alone."

Neal's gaze remained lowered but his eyebrow quirked; he was still listening, at least.

"Comfortable distance is probably a good idea, in the wild. But here, attachments simply mean you have somewhere safe to go."

Peter reached over to pick up Neal's wine glass, held it out to him, waited.

Neal took the glass with a hand that shook, ever so slightly, and a deep swallow with lips that did not. He finally met Peter's eyes.

"You know, Peter, one of your most attractive traits is subtlety," he said, deadpan, pushing up out of the chair. Not-so-subtly telling Peter to leave, that Neal needed some distance.

Peter chuckled, following Neal to his feet and letting him get away with the tease. He adjusted the collar of his suit jacket in his awkward way, provoking a predictable grimace.

"Finish that and go to bed," Peter said, pointing at Neal's wine. "We've got a busy day tomorrow.

He made his way to the balcony door before pausing. "Oh, and I'll take a rain check on that beer."

Neal nodded. Peter smiled and closed the door behind him, leaving Neal staring thoughtfully at his own feet under the open air.


End file.
